


Chiaroscuro

by AndreaLyn



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the middle of the night, there is an attack which sets a chain of events into motion. Among them, Galahad falls in love, Tristan recovers from a minor injury and there is darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiaroscuro

Black.  
  
It was dark in the forest and the horse was having trouble finding its way through the paths between the trees. Every so often, there would be another blockade – more arrows stuck in the trees, more dwindling fires – and the horse would protest with a whinny and changed course. Fog seeped in, and the darkness slowly took over everything, claiming sight, claiming trees, taking everything in its path. It was too dark to find a proper way, and through it all, someone was screaming.   
  
Galahad struggled on his horse to find the noise, find out who was in such deep pain that they would scream in such terrible agony. His head swirled with the deep scream that pervaded through the darkest of nights. It was blinding him with a deep and dark terror that he could not name, were his life depending on it. His horse leaned backwards, sending Galahad toppling off, now completely lost in the black.  
  
And the desperate wailing of pain remained.   
  
Galahad looked down to see why he hadn’t stood up yet from his fall. He could see nothing but one metre around him. It was enough of a distance to see that his hands were completely covered in blood. He frowned, raising his blood-covered hands to his eyes and searched around him for what he had killed. The blood was deep, crimson-staining his hands and his tunic as well. He hadn’t remembered killing anything. He only remembered the darkness.  
  
Then, as his hands dropped to the gaping wounds in both his stomach and leg, he realized.   
  
He was screaming.   
  
Galahad opened his eyes widely as he awoke, a sharp shock of cold washing over him. He let out a quiet, keening cry that someone must have heard because suddenly there were shadows surrounding him. The memories of the past few days quickly came swimming back to him as he sat up, breathing laboriously in pain, his face drenched with sweat. He bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood as his hands moved to check the two wounds on his body – the more severe in his stomach and the more ‘superficial’ on his thigh, it hurt quite a bit more than simply superficially, however – and brought his hands back up to see blood.   
  
“Did I miss the funeral?” he managed to grit out through his teeth, breathing quickly as someone took a needle to him. It appeared as though he had woken in the middle of his patching, a lovely sense of timing Galahad couldn’t manage to shake. His body had a sudden spasm with a new onset of pain that went coursing through him, making his limbs twitch.   
  
“No,” an undistinguishable voice responded to him as the needle threaded in and out of the wound on his stomach. Galahad turned slightly in an attempt to lessen the pain, but too many hands to count in his fevered state were on him, binding him down and holding him there. “We bury Percival in two days. You’ll have plenty of time to recover before you can be broken emotionally,” it was Lancelot speaking to him, sounding bitter and caustic.   
  
“Galahad, be still,” that was Tristan hissing at him. “Unless you want a needle and thread embedded in your stomach for life.”   
  
“Better than this  _pain_ ,” Galahad spat out, tiny specks of blood mixing with his saliva and dribbling on his chin with his words. He coughed out hoarsely, tasting the bitter tang of blood, seemingly staining his mouth and tongue permanently. He gave a desolate moan and laid on his back, wincing as Tristan continued to jab him, each stitch seemingly crueler than it need be. “Where’s Gawain?” Galahad asked miserably. “He always does my stitchings and he’s far better at it than this sadist.”   
  
And the needle drove in harder. His pain was most certainly clouding Galahad’s better judgment that was screaming at him to keep his mouth shut. Galahad gave out another cry, catching the roll of Lancelot’s eyes in a strange passing moment of lucidity. After that moment though, Lancelot grasped Galahad’s hand and held it still as Galahad squeezed hard with every flicker of pain that shot through his body.   
  
“I’ve not done this since Vanora’s fifth,” Lancelot commented mildly, drawing quiet laughs from everyone, Galahad included, which only resulted in more blood spit up and a terrible cough shaking his body. “You’re a might less angrier than she was,” Lancelot confided quietly. Galahad supposed Bors was not around, or else Lancelot might have been hauled away and disciplined for speaking as such.   
  
Galahad gave a yelp as Tristan closed off the stitches in his stomach.  
  
“More noisy, though,” Lancelot added under his breath. Galahad squeezed his hand as hard as he could. “Ow,” Lancelot said evenly, his face betraying no pain. Galahad felt his world seem to settle faster now, no longer spinning or darkening.   
  
Tristan gave Galahad’s stomach a light pat. “I think you’ll live,” he said quietly. “There’s still the knife wound in your thigh. If you want Gawain to stitch it up, you’ll have to wait a few weeks. He went with Arthur and the others to chase down the traitorous Roman bastards. I begged to go with them, but my leg is too fractured to ride, according to Arthur at least. He forcibly stopped me from getting on the horse.”   
  
“A secret attack on us while we slept,” Lancelot harrumphed. “The last thing I had ever expected to find in my bed was an angry Roman.”  
  
Galahad suffered the pain as a result of looking Tristan’s way and smirking – a smirk that was returned with enthusiasm and savvy comprehension. “We’ve heard differently,” Galahad coughed out. He was awaiting a snappy reply, but instead of hearing anything, Galahad succumbed to darkness once more as he blacked out. This time, he was rewarded with an utterly dreamless sleep rather than the plague of nightmares like before.  
  
He woke to find himself alone.   
  
Everything – every last memory – of the past three days had slowly caught up to him in his slow waking. They were memories he wasn’t sure he wanted to come back. Three days ago, he and Gawain had been in a great argument, debating the finer points of their friendship using the crudest language they could and certainly not the politest manner of arguing. Galahad had been nursing some bruises when the attack had occurred.   
  
Perhaps, in the past, Galahad had greatly underestimated the anger of scorned Romans. He had woken in the apex of chaos, finding that his wrists and ankles had been secured to the bed with coarse rope. He had panicked and flailed about in a desperate attempt to free himself. He had been one of the few that hadn’t woken with the noise and his body would pay the price.   
  
They had set about attempting to kill him slowly, plunging a sword deep into his stomach, extremely slowly. The long wound on his thigh had been inflicted when Galahad had refused to beg for his life. The sword in his stomach twisted, plunged and sent blood spilling over. His fingers twitched as they covered the now-stitched wound in recollection of the manner in which the Romans had taken devilish delight in carving him open. Finally, his rescue came through the door, Tristan and Dagonet bursting through and promptly attacking the Romans.   
  
They had untied Galahad and the only words that Galahad recalled hearing were three quiet and slow utterances that sat heavily on his heart.  
  
“Percival is dead.”  
  
They had tortured Percival as well, he found out later. They had put hot pokers to his flesh. It was when the door was being knocked down that they ended it all by slitting Percival’s throat. And there was no stitching that back up, there was only the cold knowledge that the traitors would not escape with their lives and they would most certainly not escape without knowing the full meaning of pain.   
  
They had clasped him by the side of his head, nails digging in at the skin and yanking at the hair on his head and his beard, spitting on him and hissing about how he was worthless, this ‘whelp of the Knights, thinks because he’s youngest, he gets all the spoils that we miss out on’. He still had the half-moon marks of their nails on his face to show for their brutal disdain.   
  
The door opened and closed quietly, Tristan limping in the room with an armful of bandages and cloths. He dragged a chair over to the bedside quite noisily, sitting down and grabbing a bowl of water, one hand flat over the breadth of Galahad’s chest to keep him from moving.   
  
“It’s very lucky that Gawain noticed you weren’t with us,” Tristan remarked quietly, squeezing the wet cloth atop the bowl before lightly dabbing it over the dirtied wound. “Else there may have been two funerals.”  
  
“Yes, good old Gawain,” Galahad commented, not able to keep some of the vitriol out of his voice.  
  
“Don’t be bitter. Eighteen is too young to die,” Tristan reprimanded him. “I know that you and Gawain fought, but he still kept your best interests in mind. Don’t wish yourself dead just to give him grief.”   
  
“Eighteen was a fine enough age for some of the other knights, why not me?” Galahad challenged childishly.   
  
“Yes, but they’d matured by eighteen,” Tristan said, a tight smile playing on his lips. “You still have your ways to go. Why bear this grudge? He merely…”  
  
“He said he didn’t know why he put up with me,” Galahad interrupted, shifting slightly so that Tristan’s hands could maneuver around his stomach better. “And went on speaking ill of our friendship and everything we’ve shared over the last decade. He thinks that I’m too  _immature_. He thinks that I simply don’t understand.”  
  
“What does he want you to understand?” Tristan asked distractedly, his gaze focused on the cloth. The dried remnants of blood still stained his bare stomach and Tristan’s adept hands were working to clean him off, turning attention to him that was regularly not bestowed on him. Usually, Tristan was busy with his training or keeping his hawk alive and well. Actually, most often, Tristan was simply nowhere to be found. This sort of attention was actually rather strange.  
  
“Hmm?” Galahad murmured, losing his train of thought.  
  
“What is it that Gawain thinks you wouldn’t understand?” Tristan repeated.  
  
Galahad let out a derisive scoff. “He wouldn’t even say.”   
  
“And then the attack occurred,” Tristan completed the story for him. His hands moved swiftly across the stitches, yet they did not cause Galahad any pain. Rather, there was a slight shiver that ran through him at being so lavished with unasked-for attention. The pads of Tristan’s fingertips lightly skirted around the stitches, checking to see if any had torn and seemingly finding them adequate when he relaxed back in the chair – his posture perfect, yet his eye still attentive on Galahad. “If it makes a difference, he seemed quite remorseful right before we went into battle.”  
  
Galahad wrinkled his nose. “It helps,” he said hesitantly and frowned, something dawning on his mind. “Only slightly though,” he added quickly. “How’s your leg? It was fractured, wasn’t it?”  
  
“They pushed the dresser down on it,” Tristan said mildly, an amused smile flickering on his face. “You haven’t noticed that your furniture has mysteriously vanished? It splintered quite badly when I took my sword to it.”   
  
“You broke my furniture?” Galahad asked in a small, wounded voice. “I  _liked_  that furniture.”  
  
“Are you telling me you liked a dresser more than you liked me?” Tristan demanded, propping his bad leg up on the bed beside Galahad’s own. “I will be terribly wounded if you don’t answer this properly, so think very long and very carefully about how you intend to answer while keeping in mind just how many ways I know how to kill a man.”   
  
“I suppose you have better features than the dresser,” Galahad admitted with a heavy sigh and a grin on his face. It was beginning to hurt him to speak, but he felt better than he had since long before the fight with Gawain. “After all, you’re slightly better to look at.”  
  
“Slightly,” Tristan harrumphed, shaking his head and brushing aside Galahad’s hair lightly where the marks from the Roman’s fingernails lay. He shook his head and made chiding noises with his tongue. “Arthur will show no mercy,” Tristan promised quietly, relinquishing his hold on Galahad’s hair, letting it fall back over his face as he lightly patted Galahad’s cheek. “Percival will be avenged. They will pay for making you suffer.”   
  
“And your leg will get its vengeance,” Galahad replied with a sleepy yawn. He found that the pain was settling in on him quickly now, dragging him into unwanted sleep. “I’m sorry about making you stay here,” he added drowsily, clumsily patting Tristan on the wrist as best he could. “But Gawain is gone and you should know that I regard you as highly as I do him.”  
  
And then Galahad fell asleep.   
  
He was not so lucky as to be without dreams this time around. This time in his dreams, he relived the events so vividly it was as though someone had snuck up on him in the night once again and had bound his hands with the very same rope. He tried to speak and call for aid, shouting for Tristan, nearly desperate to cry out Gawain’s name, but still none came, nor did sound come from his mouth.  
  
And slowly, very slowly, the Romans were carving symbols into his flesh, spelling out one word on his chest. He squirmed, the pain throbbing in his stomach and leg, his head tilted back to the ceiling in a silent plea for help.  
  
“Not this time, boy,” the Roman cradled Galahad’s head roughly, forcing him to look down. “They won’t save you.”   
  
On him, they had carved the word ‘cursed’.   
  
He woke to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears and found that Tristan had not gone anywhere. He had instead kept vigil by his bedside all night, one hand resting lightly on the material of the sheet, as though a barrier, keeping Galahad from rolling too much and falling to the ground.   
  
Groggily, he found that Tristan was awake, still confused as to why he was receiving such attention suddenly. After a moment, Galahad shifted from sleep to a full awake and noticed that Tristan was in a ready status, one hand on his knife. He did not move his hand from the bed and instead, shifted it to lift up Galahad’s bed dressings and check on the wounds.   
  
“You scream in your sleep,” Tristan stated simply as his fingers brushed against the cloth and made sure it was secure.  
  
“Why are you staying here? What purpose could it possibly serve?” Galahad inquired wearily, wincing every time Tristan’s fingers passed over the stomach wound. “I can’t imagine you actually _want_  to be here, so why…”  
  
“There’s suspicion that the Romans may return,” Tristan interrupted, arching one eyebrow upwards. “Perhaps to finish the job.”   
  
“You’re my guardian?” Galahad whispered with clear amusement. “Well, if there was something I hadn’t been expecting…”  
  
“You should sleep,” Tristan interrupted gently, his hands brushing Galahad’s hair away from his forehead and resting there for a moment. “You’re still warm, chasing off the last of the fever. It will do you no good to sit here and speak with me.”  
  
Galahad opened his mouth to protest, lowering himself under the sheet. Finally, he looked over and gave Tristan an apologetic look, almost ashamed to speak his fears aloud. “I really don’t think I can sleep right now. The nightmares have been…”  
  
“Rest, nonetheless,” Tristan interrupted, his voice stern. Galahad was not looking to be on the wrong end of Tristan’s wrath and so commanded himself to at least close his eyes and perhaps just focus on the soothing motion of Tristan’s fingertips brushing through his hair. He gave a sleepy yawn as he began to drift off unwillingly and gave a tiny hum of contentment matched with a small smile. He’d have to tell Tristan just how good that felt, that talent with his fingers. Of course, it would have to wait for morning. Yes, morning. He fell to sleep; Tristan’s fingertips warm in his hair.   
  
When Galahad awoke, Tristan was still there with him. He was quickly becoming a presence that Galahad was growing accustomed to. Tristan was sewing something together and Galahad couldn’t piece together the time that Tristan had slept – it seemed nonexistent, really.  
  
“I’m still alive,” Galahad murmured, propping himself up into a sitting position. “Job well done.”  
  
“I’m going to have to stitch up your leg,” Tristan murmured, tearing off the thread with his teeth. Galahad frowned, they had concurred that it would be fine as it was. “I took a look at it while you were sleeping and I don’t trust it to heal properly without some stitches.”  
  
“But you said…” Galahad began to protest.  
  
“I lied,” Tristan replied smoothly. “You said that Gawain had spoken to you the other day about not understanding something, yes?”  
  
Galahad nodded, confused as to why this subject was reappearing and still feeling rather indignant about needing to go under the needle once more. While Tristan had many skills, his talent at stitching up human beings was praised about as often as was Bors’ tact. He sat back and allowed Tristan to undress the bandages on his stomach and clean him up.  
  
“I may have pieced it together,” Tristan continued. “This was after you took that girl to bed, wasn’t it? Her name was something with…an L, yes?”  
  
“Lara,” Galahad nodded. “I’d asked Gawain for help because they’ve been good friends for many years now and I was hoping to learn more about her before I,” he swallowed hard and blushed, “well, bedded her.”   
  
“You took her to bed, the next day was the day that you and Gawain fought?” Tristan inquired, grasping a clean bandage and wrapping the wound back up, taking his time and resting one strong hand on Galahad’s back to keep him from moving. Galahad nodded and a look of comprehension flitted across Tristan’s face. “I see,” he said with a smug grin and a snort.   
  
Galahad frowned. “What?” he asked, his expression wounded. “You see what?”  
  
“It’s…”  
  
“Tell me!”  
  
“Galahad, I don’t…”  
  
“Tristan,  _please_ ,” Galahad pleaded, coughing slightly after straining himself so. It was strange that he could be rendered so weak that even verbal communication became difficult for him. Tristan waited for him to finish coughing. Galahad swiped at the spittle on his chin with his wrist and looked askance to Tristan, pleading with his eyes. “I have absolutely no indications as to what this is about. Please, Tristan. For our friendship’s sake.”  
  
Tristan seemed to take this into consideration, leaning back into the chair and tapping his fingers on his chin in a steady, staccato rhythm. Galahad stared at him, unable to think about anything save for receiving an explanation. He leaned forward as much as he could.  
  
“Please,” he added quietly, locking eyes with Tristan.   
  
“For friendship’s sake, you said?” Tristan finally spoke after a great moment of heavy silence.   
  
Galahad nodded fervently.  
  
“Fine,” Tristan nodded in agreement. “I will save your friendship if I can. This does not mean I’ll be telling you anything right now, but rather that I will attempt as best I can to see if we can’t repair things between you two.”  
  
Galahad gave a wide beam of gratitude and faintly in the back of his mind, he tried – and failed – to grasp at something he had been supposed to tell Tristan, or rather commend him about. He couldn’t put his finger on it and brushed it away, telling himself that it would come with time.   
  
***  
  
They postponed Percival’s funeral for a week, long enough so that Galahad was able to walk on his feet again without his body buckling after two steps. Even so, he needed the support of either a staff or another able-bodied person. Tristan’s leg had healed quite quickly and properly – always the more important of the two – no doubt thanks to his taking many foul smelling herbs in his process of healing. He always took them in Galahad’s quarters, stinking up the place to no end.   
  
Still, it did not mean that Galahad could walk without a slow, halting limp. He shuffled forward with one arm draped around Tristan and his body tightly wrapped with bandages. It did mean that he had no part in digging the grave and he did not have to help prepare the body. There were small miracles, Galahad supposed. Lancelot was sweaty, covered with dirt and together, the three of them made a small group of mourners, the rest of the Knights still out in the woods tracking down the Romans. Briefly, Galahad wondered why Lancelot had been left behind as he seemed more than able to fight.   
  
Lancelot murmured the rites of the dead, falling to his knees and leaning heavily on Percival’s sword as he thrust it into the ground, quietly promising that his death was not in vain.   
  
Finally, as Lancelot lowered his torch to the ground, Tristan spoke aloud – words loud enough to be said only to himself, yet with Galahad’s hip pressing against Tristan’s, he was close enough to hear.  
  
“I’ll kill them with my own bare hands, every last one.”  
  
Galahad hopped slightly, shifting to look at Tristan and marked the sober, cold-blooded and furious calm to his face.   
  
He meant it.   
  
As the funeral broke apart, everyone seemed to head off in their separate directions, but Galahad was without a direction, or rather he was without a method to go anywhere without Tristan helping him – and as helpless as it made him, he appreciated Tristan’s efforts to assist. It did leave him somewhat incapable of going anywhere on his own. He cleared his throat and looked up to get Tristan’s attention.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Maybe I should rest,” Galahad said hesitantly, knowing it would be best, but still not wanting to confine himself to a bed. “There’s not much that I can do in this state and really I’m leaving all this friendship work to you, so I needn’t worry about that. Speaking of that…how is it coming?”  
  
And then Tristan gave him a strange look that Galahad could not quite decipher.   
  
“You still want me to repair this?” Tristan asked mildly as he began to walk them off slowly towards Galahad’s quarters. Every step was slow and every so often, the leg that Tristan had fractured would give out without warning or reason. Galahad tried to support him with one arm slung around his back, but it did little good most of the time. “There are some things I have to be sure of first.”  
  
“I do,” Galahad began enthusiastically. “Yes, I do want you to continue. I trust you to always finish a task to completion, Tristan. Always.”   
  
“This,” Tristan began, his tone warning as they stopped for breath in the middle of an alley. “This you must be sure of, Galahad. Once I do this, there is no going back or any kind of second thoughts. Do you understand?”   
  
Galahad nodded, feeling slightly out of breath and thinking to himself that it was a kind of madness that a simple walk from the cemetery back into town would cause him so much grief. The weather was taking a turn for the worse – worse being in British terms of course, the normal course of weather not decidedly appealing. Fog was creeping in and it made Galahad’s joints ache.   
  
“Trust me, then,” Tristan said quietly, turning and pinning Galahad to the alley wall. He slowly stepped forward, his hands gently cupping Galahad’s face and slow, warm lips sealed over Galahad’s own.   
  
Galahad gave the slightest of murmured protests before he relaxed his muscles and relinquished himself to Tristan, melting into him and leaning into the touch. His fingers tried in vain to climb up to Tristan’s hair, trying to thread in between the locks but he got no further than the shoulders where they rested finally and clung to him, trying to bring him closer. He opened his lips and let in Tristan’s tongue, trying to pitch the pace faster, biting down lightly on Tristan’s lower lip. Finally, he pulled away in a desperate need for air. He bent over slightly, looking up to see the same unmoving calm on Tristan’s face.  
  
“That was saving my friendship with Gawain?” Galahad questioned, still slightly breathless with a wide grin plastered on his face. “I must say, it’s a lot more interesting than I expected it to be.”  
  
Tristan snaked one arm around Galahad’s hip, securing him from taking a fall to the ground when he stumbled slightly. Slowly, they moved to his quarters in silence, the rush of the moment eventually fading away from Galahad and confusion taking its place as they walked. Finally, they arrived and Tristan slowly eased Galahad back onto the bed, grabbing a sheet and draping it over Galahad.   
  
“Tristan,” Galahad started, two fingers touching his lips. “What exactly was that?”  
  
“It seems Gawain does have a valid reason to be upset with you,” Tristan answered, not looking Galahad in the eyes. He turned and began to walk to the door. He turned back to speak over his shoulder. “Even if you hadn’t been aware of it.”  
  
“Wait!” Galahad sat up quickly and reaching one arm out, wincing at the pain that shot through him as a result. Tristan stopped, turned and raised an eyebrow. Galahad found himself embarrassed, yet again, as he folded in on himself. “Can you…will you…stay, please? I’d feel better,” he said in a rush.  
  
Tristan took a step back inside the room, frowning in concern. “Have the nightmares returned?”  
  
Galahad nodded. “Always the same,” he murmured quietly. “You can yell at me all you want about how I’ve ruined things with Gawain. You can call me names and everything, I promise. Just…I’d feel safer,” he finished, looking away and at the wall instead of at Tristan.   
  
He heard footsteps and heard the same noisy scratch of the chair on the floor that told him that Tristan was staying. Galahad looked over with a smile of sheer gratitude and felt himself settle slightly, feeling just that much safer with someone watching over him. He pressed his fingers to his lips one last time.  
  
“Tristan…”  
  
“Yes?” Tristan relaxed into the chair, pressing the back of his hand to Galahad’s forehead. Tristan made a tiny satisfied sound, which hopefully meant that the fever had subsided slightly. “What is it?” he prodded.   
  
“Whatever that was for,” Galahad began, biting on his lip. “Earlier, that is. In the alleyway, whatever purpose that served. It was,” he paused, smiling slightly. “It was nice. Good. Rather, I enjoyed it.”   
  
Tristan gave a nod.   
  
“Thank you,” Galahad murmured, dropping off to sleep to the feel of Tristan’s fingers running through his hair once again. That was it, he realized with his mind tainted with sleep. He was supposed to commend Tristan on how soothing he was. “You’re good at this,” he said softly, his words slurring together.   
  
Just before Galahad fell asleep, he remembered hearing four words as clear as day from Tristan’s mouth, a statement not to be argued with and one that Tristan was most certainly sure of.  
  
“I’m good at everything.”   
  
Had Galahad been more alert, he would have argued. Now, he was too tired to even give it much thought. So instead, he relaxed his body completely and drifted off to sleep. For the first time in a week, he slept without incident of nightmares plaguing his sleeping hours.   
  
Upon waking, Tristan was there.   
  
Galahad felt as though he might grow used to this. He shifted slightly, noticing that Tristan was awake as well and feeding his hawk with great care. Every so often, he would tap it on the beak, smiling with affection and whispering words in a language that Galahad didn’t understand.   
  
“Do you ever sleep?” Galahad asked bluntly. Tristan was not startled; he merely turned his attention to the bed. He sniffed the air and winced. The stench of that terrible mixture of herbs was in the air, the one that Tristan used so often. He lifted up the sheet to find it lightly spread around the wound on his leg that had been slightly infectious a few days past. Tristan didn’t answer, but instead held up a needle that he must have had in his hand the whole time. Galahad paled. “No, the leg is  _fine_.”  
  
“Trust me,” Tristan instructed gently, taking the sheet off of Galahad and reaching for a bowl of water with a cloth, cleaning the skin up before locking eyes with Galahad and holding his gaze. “Can you do that?”  
  
“Do you have to?” Galahad said pathetically, clinging to the last vestiges of desperate hope.  
  
“Yes,” Tristan replied. He sat on the bed at Galahad’s hips, his attention strictly on the wound, but Galahad noticed the way that he was right at Galahad’s hip, bringing warmth with him and sending small shivers down Galahad’s spine. He rested one hand on Galahad’s good leg. “It will be quick.”   
  
True to his word, the torture was short-lived as Tristan may not have been adept at painless stitches, he could at least insert them effectively and quickly – Tristan always cited a great burst of pain all at once was better than torture, unless it was torture by his hand. Galahad tried his best not to shift and squirm, biting down hard on his lip every time a cry seemed ready to escape and make him seem even more of a delicate sissy. He clung desperately to the bedsheets, the fabric wrinkling within his clenched fists.   
  
Finally, the pain relented and Tristan sat back slightly, giving Galahad an inquisitive look. Tiny beads of sweat had broken on Galahad’s forehead and he breathed heavily, tired of being opened and closed like he was some sort of experiment.   
  
“Was that so terrible?” Tristan inquired, a smile breaking on the corners of his lips.  
  
“It still hurt,” Galahad grumbled, slowly releasing the sheets from his hands.  
  
Tristan leaned forward gracefully, tucking the needle into his belt. He stretched that slight distance more that it took to kiss Galahad, and he pulled softly and slowly on Galahad’s lower lip, lingering after and simply pressing their lips together. Then, Tristan shifted forward on the bed and gently increased the speed of the kiss, pushing his tongue into Galahad’s mouth. There was a blissful minute of this before Tristan pulled away, evoking a small exhalation of disappointment from Galahad.  
  
“A kiss,” Tristan explained, smiling genuinely and widely now, “to make it better.”  
  
Galahad opened his mouth, feeling disoriented. He blinked. “Tristan, not to protest…”  
  
“But you will,” Tristan interrupted quietly.  
  
“…but what is the reason behind this?” Galahad continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. He frowned in confusion, still unable to piece everything together and only aware of the fact that Tristan was indeed a very good kisser and he was getting quite worked up by all this lip-play. If this were to continue, it most certainly would have to be more than innocent kisses soon, lest Galahad go mad.  
  
“I can’t just like you?” Tristan blinked innocently. Innocence had a terrible look on Tristan, and only served to make Galahad uneasier than before. Galahad rolled his eyes and scoffed, which seemed to send the innocence out of Tristan immediately.   
  
“You never do something without ulterior motives,” Galahad accused evenly, raising one eyebrow. “You’re known for that.”   
  
“I thought I was known for my brutal torture in my killings,” Tristan replied lightly, as though he were discussing a meal at dinner. “I worked rather hard to earn that reputation, don’t tell me it was for naught.”  
  
“Tristan!” Galahad said, his eyes wide. “Stop being so exasperating!”  
  
“At first it was to test my theory,” Tristan finally unveiled. “My theory was correct.”  
  
“And you continued because?” Galahad shifted forward and closer to Tristan.  
  
“I continued because I enjoyed it. When I find I enjoy something, I never stop so long as the pleasure is still there,” Tristan said, a cold smile on his face. Galahad felt an uneasy turn of his stomach, knowing that behind those words was the implication that this affair could be held upon a pedestal with Tristan’s favourite methods of torture – he enjoyed those too, no doubt. The Knights had seen Tristan when let loose with no orders. That cold smile had made appearances before.   
  
“What theory?” Galahad asked quietly, edging closer now to Tristan. He leaned into the touch of Tristan’s hand when it cupped the side of Galahad’s face. He half-closed his eyes as Tristan’s fingers began to gently stroke the area where the Romans had been so cruel, digging their nails into him. Galahad felt hazy, as though he would not get this chance again and that he must seize it now.   
  
“I know why Gawain thinks,” Tristan began quietly, his voice barely a whisper that made it to Galahad’s ears, “that you wouldn’t understand. But you do.”  
  
Galahad pressed his lips to Tristan’s jaw, letting them simply rest there, still and unmoving before he craned his neck to the side and began to run slow, heated kisses down Tristan’s neck. For all he cared, no words had come from Tristan. There was only this. Tristan replied to this by tilting his gaze to the ceiling, stretching his neck and allowing Galahad to slowly nip his way down to the shoulder, his hands pushing away his shirt to make more room for skin.  
  
“But you understand,” Tristan went on whispering. “You understand far better than he could know.”  
  
Galahad was moving as quickly as he could now, shifting himself out of the loose bedshirt he had taken to wearing – no breeches, because they irritated the wound on his leg. He moved to kiss Tristan fervently, feverishly now, forgetting anything about gentleness or delicacy. Now, their teeth clashed together and Tristan pulled hard at Galahad’s lower lip with his teeth, almost savage.   
  
Galahad moaned desperately into Tristan’s mouth as Tristan mounted him, straddling his hips tightly, not allowing for much motion at all. Galahad thrust his hips upwards, understanding with precise knowledge that the heat flickering through him and settling in his groin meant that he needed more than this. He needed it right now.   
  
“Tristan,” he drew out the name into an inhumanly long exhalation, his voice hitching near the end. He began to breathe heavily while Tristan slowly pushed down on Galahad while taking off his belt, proceeding to move nimble fingers over expert knots. Galahad ran his hands through Tristan’s hair, tugging him down by the braids and planting another searing kiss on his lips, distracting him from the knots. Tristan was warmer than anyone Galahad had kissed before. He didn’t know how that was possible, but it was. Now Tristan was straddling him, completely shirtless. Galahad traced the scars on Tristan’s chest with his fingers, amazed that a person could have so many terrible scars, yet still retain some modicum of…well, beauty, Galahad supposed. Tristan shifted slightly, a tiny motion needed for him to push his belt and breeches to the floor.   
  
Most of the scars had faded and were now a faded pink, harsh white. Memories of battles past and enemies already defeated. Galahad inhaled sharply, tilting his head back and letting Tristan take to his neck like a predator, using his teeth roughly, yet not causing any true pain. The only thing to come from Galahad was the long, drawn-out cries of pleasure and they were a far cry from pain.   
  
He  _needed_  this.   
  
Tristan seemed to need this just as much if his frantic pace was any indication. He took Galahad by the biceps and turned him over without so much as a warning he was going to do so, he did not say a word, merely used his strength and got Galahad on his stomach. Galahad spread himself out, turning his body into a starfish as best he could. He felt warm breath by his ear after a moment.  
  
“Are you all right?”   
  
He was worried about the wounds. Yes, those bloody things. Galahad had just put them out of his mind. He turned as best he could and nodded, not saying anything but merely resting his forehead against the pillow, his body screaming with need now. He let his head roll lazily, relaxing his muscles and then finally, that heat was upon him again. Tristan pushed deep into him, gentle again – just like those first kisses had been – and dug his fingers into the muscles in Galahad’s shoulders, kneading and massaging slowly, making it so that Galahad was on his way to becoming utterly boneless.   
  
And then, just as the kisses had turned into something more heated and frantic, Tristan’s pace as he thrust into him did just the same. Each gentle push turned into a defiant and powerful thrust, sending Galahad to the brink of some kind of oblivion. He sputtered incoherently and arched forward into the bed as he clung once more to the sheets, this time to prevent himself from letting loose a terrible scream.   
  
He succeeded in keeping the noise down to a dull roar.   
  
Tristan pushed in and stayed there, trailing his hands down Galahad’s spine lightly, fingertips hovering just barely over the skin. Galahad inhaled brokenly as he came, crying out Tristan’s name loudly as he exhaled. He slumped down, sated and truly boneless now with Tristan pushing in as he came, wrapping his arms around Galahad’s own as everything went silent.   
  
“I think that may have helped take away the pain,” Galahad murmured with pleasure. “You’re good.”  
  
“I told you I was good at everything,” Tristan commented quietly in his ear, pressing his lips to the back of Galahad’s neck. Galahad could hear the smile in his voice. He laughed richly, feeling better than he had since before the attack.  
  
“Not stitching,” Galahad snorted.   
  
“Even stitching,” Tristan snapped back. The heat came off his back and Tristan lightly made sure that Galahad was on his side before putting his breeches back on and sitting in the chair. He relaxed into it, draping his legs over the side.  
  
“What are you doing?” Galahad murmured in confusion.  
  
“Sleeping,” Tristan remarked.  
  
“In the chair?” Galahad wrinkled his nose. He shook his head and moved over. “If you’re going to sleep, you are going to sleep where I can witness it. Get in this bed. Now.” He gave Tristan an expectant look and set his chin determinedly.  
  
“It’s useless to argue, isn’t it?” Tristan grumbled in resignation. He stood up in a fluid motion and arranged himself on his back beside Galahad. “Watch carefully, this may be the only time in your life you get to see me asleep.” He shifted slightly, his fingers just lightly resting by Galahad’s hip as he closed his eyes.  
  
“I’ll remember it,” Galahad remarked with a small smile, grabbing the sheet and making sure it covered both their bodies. He turned so he could watch Tristan as he slept, realizing that this really may be the only time he would get to see Tristan completely unguarded.   
  
Four hours later, Galahad was still awake and marveling at just how relaxed Tristan was when he slept. The look of innocence this time was pure and it did nothing to put Galahad at unrest. Instead, it was rather endearing.   
  
And perhaps, he fell slightly in love.   
  
*  
  
Galahad woke to find Tristan awake, something he should have been ready for, really. He bit on his lip and fought back the grin that was fighting to make an appearance. Eighteen was too young to know love, not in its pure and true form. This was good enough, he supposed. Infatuation, maybe? Whatever it was, it felt good. He stretched, yawning as he did and scratching the side of his face, wincing when his fingers came across the scars from the Romans.   
  
“Come, let me dress the wound,” Tristan beckoned with his fingers, gesturing to a chair. He helped Galahad stand and walked him over to the chair. Galahad sat gingerly, the ache something dull and low, but ever present in him now. If his healing kept up, he would be able to go unattended in a matter of days. Though, now he wondered if maybe he should heal more slowly and enjoy Tristan’s attentiveness while it lasted. “I only hope I didn’t ruin all the good work I’d done,” Tristan mused distractedly, brushing his thumb across the stitches.   
  
“There was good work,” Galahad commented with interest, looking down. “I must have missed that. Perhaps I was passed out?”  
  
“You’re not amusing,” Tristan remarked dryly, pushing hard against the wound and digging his nails against the stitches for a brief, agonizing second.  
  
“Oh… _ow!_ ” Galahad snarled, feeling anger burn through him. That same unnatural innocence settled on Tristan’s face, the whole picture set another few degrees off-kilter by the self-serving grin Tristan wore. There was something playful in Tristan’s eyes though, and it took the edge of Galahad’s anger – but only slightly. “You  _are_  a sadist, aren’t you?”  
  
Tristan tied the knot off and patted Galahad on the shoulder. “Someone will just have to find out.”   
  
“You expect me to stay by your side long enough to do so?” Galahad snorted, getting up and walking around the room slowly, testing his strength. It was a good morning because it was about fourteen paces before Galahad’s legs began to wobble.   
  
“I’m irresistible,” Tristan grinned toothily, leaving Galahad in peace. Galahad stood there a moment, running a hand through his hair and looking out his small window to find that it had begun to snow slightly, light flakes dusting the ground. He heard the door open again and turned to find Tristan standing there. “Are you coming?”  
  
Galahad frowned. “Where are we going?”  
  
“It’s a surprise,” Tristan drawled lazily. “Let’s go.”  
  
“You’re not going to kidnap me, are you?” Galahad hesitated. He had to ask. “It’s getting to be winter, and…and Lancelot will notice I’m gone. Eventually.” He frowned. “Possibly.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Right. When the others get back, I’ll be searched for.”  
  
“Let’s,” Tristan repeated sternly, “go.”  
  
Galahad mumbled to himself as he got dressed, sneaking another look out the window and grasping an extra shirt to keep himself warm. He put on his boots and marched off slowly after Tristan, who was waiting for him. Galahad stopped as he met up with him. He gave an expectant look and Tristan wrapped his arm around Galahad’s waist, supporting him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.   
  
“You know, I’m going to grow used to this,” Galahad warned mildly.   
  
“Well then, I’ll just have to learn my way around your body,” Tristan retorted immediately, just as lightly. He pushed open the door to the stable, leading Galahad inside and grabbing the reins of both their horses. “You promise you won’t fall off?”  
  
Galahad regarded his horse nervously, feeling his leg twinge with slight pain. “I can’t make any promises,” he said faintly. “We’ll go slow?”  
  
“Yes,” Tristan responded, mounting his own horse.   
  
“Then, I promise not to make my injuries worse,” Galahad swore, slowly getting on top of his horse. He cantered forward, Tristan reaching out to steady him and leading him. Galahad looked down nervously, grasping at the reins. “Exactly how far are we going?”  
  
“Not far,” Tristan replied, briefly glancing to Galahad, his eyes forward. “I found it two days ago while I was out checking to see if the others had returned. You might enjoy it, or you might find it a terrible waste of time and hate me for it.”  
  
“That’s not possible,” Galahad tossed that off, their horses trotting slowly out past the field and into the woods. “After all, you’re so damn irresistible and all, how could anyone hate you? Unless of course, they  _met_  you,” he snapped out.   
  
“Sarcasm does not look good on you,” Tristan retorted with a shrug, sitting up perfectly straight in the saddle.   
  
“You’re lying,” Galahad smirked. “Everything looks good on me.”  
  
“Smugness isn’t exactly appealing either,” Tristan commented, riding slightly ahead. Galahad kicked his horse to get it to go slightly faster, dodging trees as they made it into the forest. Galahad ducked his head, but was unable to completely avoid brushing his head against the tree branches. He managed to follow Tristan, but just barely. They arrived in a valley of sorts eventually; it couldn’t have been more than two miles outside the walls.   
  
Tristan stepped over to help Galahad off his horse. Galahad took his hand and stepped down carefully, looking around at the area. His gaze was drawn over to a small waterfall that had begun to ice over with the frosts at night. The ground hadn’t thawed from the morning chill, and every step left a solid print. It was a good thing that no one was tracking them, because it would be an easy job.  
  
“This is beautiful,” Galahad remarked with awe. It hung from every word as he slowly tore away from Tristan’s hand and stepped forward, marveling at how an oasis of serenity had existed so close to their hellish hole and how no one had discovered it until now. He turned around to regard Tristan. “This is…this is amazing.” The stream beside him was burbling quietly, setting Galahad’s mind at ease. He closed his eyes and listened to the water. “It sets my mind at ease,” he murmured distantly. “And I can forget that they tied me. I can forget what they said. I can even forget the dreams,” he said, feeling himself drift away with the water.   
  
Strong hands came up on Galahad’s shoulders, turning him. He opened his eyes and melted into Tristan’s touch, leaning up and pressing a swift kiss upon his lips, pushing his hips up against Tristan’s. Together, their breath mixed in their air and Tristan pushed back, increasing the intensity of the kiss and wrapping one arm around to Galahad’s back, supporting him.   
  
Finally they parted, Galahad gasping for the cold air.   
  
“You really are good at that,” he remarked raggedly, his face flushed. “You should be more careful. If you kiss many girls like that, you’ll be a followed man, sought for by all the girls in the village.”  
  
“And how many boys?” Tristan questioned, not taking his hand off Galahad’s back. “Or will it just be you?”   
  
“How many boys do you kiss like that?” Galahad challenged and kissed Tristan before he could respond. He slipped his tongue into Tristan’s mouth and surged forward, pressing their bodies even closer together.   
  
“Just the prettiest ones,” Tristan mumbled into Galahad’s mouth. “But I can’t seem to explain you,” he said, a small smile on his lips as he pulled Galahad closer and pushed his tongue against Galahad’s, both fighting for control and neither of them truly winning it. Galahad finally gave him a push away, mainly to catch his breath before turning to see the horses in the clearing. “It’s far too cold to do anything here,” Galahad commented, wondering how quickly they could return to his room.   
  
“Not with you so injured,” Tristan continued gravely, his gaze turned downwards to Galahad’s stomach and thigh. A thoughtful look passed over Tristan’s features as he took Galahad by the hand. “Come, now. We’re not going to repeat last night. You’re too worn for that right now.”  
  
“But, I…” Galahad began to protest.   
  
“Galahad, shut up and  _trust_  me,” Tristan warned, helping him atop his horse. “I may only be good at everything, but I’m quite remarkable when it comes to my hands. Trust me enough and you’ll find out instead of me having to harm you further.”   
  
“You had better keep that promise,” Galahad threatened as they began to ride back towards the village, Galahad leading the way as quickly as he could go in his state. “You know, these threats of violence are becoming all too normal in this relationship.”  
  
“If you say relationship once more,” Tristan began idly, his gaze focused straightforward. He didn’t even glance at Galahad once as he spoke, “you will be sleeping on your own for the next three fortnights.”   
  
Galahad slowly dismounted his horse once they reached the stables and clung to the saddle for balance while he sorted himself out on his feet. “Leaving you to wander the great woods on your own? You really don’t sleep much,” Galahad accused, crossing his arms. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until I believe you won’t become a raving insomniac who walks the woods instead of sleeping like any normal, sane person would.”  
  
Tristan mumbled something under his breath as he passed Galahad, hanging the saddles up. Galahad froze, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pinpoint Tristan’s words to see if he had said…but he couldn’t have meant…  
  
“What did you say?” Galahad asked sharply.  
  
“You,” Tristan started slowly, punctuating each word, “utter,” he took a step closer to Galahad, “woman.”   
  
“Yes, well, if you insist of being a complete idiot,” Galahad spat out, watching Tristan hang up the saddle of Galahad’s horse as well. “I mean, really. Exactly what do you think will happen when exhaustion finally claims you? Perhaps you’ll frolic about in a field of daisies, exclaiming your true love for the Woads.”  
  
“Now  _that_ ,” Tristan started with amusement, “would be raving lunacy.”  
  
Galahad began to walk forward, reaching down to itch at his breeches and wincing. Tristan rolled his eyes and smacked at his wrist, binding them by holding Galahad’s hands with his own and leading him down the corridors.  
  
“Stop that,” Tristan said lightly.  
  
“It itches,” Galahad growled. “I hate wearing breeches. They irritate me. Why can’t I wear the tunic?”  
  
“Because it’s too cold. The wound may grow infectious if exposed to too much dirt, not to mention the stitches may tear open if you decide to do anything decidedly stupid,” Tristan rattled off his answer quickly. “And with you, it’s only a matter of time.”  
  
“You never say the right thing,” Galahad snapped irritably, storming in the direction of his room now, all previous thoughts of illicit acts forgotten. Now, the only thing he truly wanted to do was slam the door, preferably in Tristan’s face. That would serve the bastard right.   
  
“But I always  _do_  what’s right,” Tristan replied with a smirk, “dependant on the situation, of course.”  
  
Instead of slamming the door, Tristan maneuvered his way inside and shut the door with his back. He turned and locked the door – a terrible sound with finality to it, something that Galahad still associated with the Romans in his room. He shivered once, involuntarily, but soon forgot about the sound when Tristan began advancing on him like a predator on its prey. This time when Galahad shivered, it was not out of fear but out of the sheer anticipation.   
  
Tristan took him by the upper arms and sat him on the bed, turning him and lying him down before he snaked one hand inside the breeches, warm upon Galahad’s hip. Galahad leaned into the touch as Tristan used his other hand to push down the waist of the breeches. He breathed in and out slowly, watching Tristan the whole time before turning his gaze downwards to watch as each of Tristan’s fingers wrapped slowly and perfectly around Galahad’s cock.   
  
Galahad inhaled sharply through his teeth. One moment, the light touch of Tristan’s fingers were barely there, and the next, they were a sudden and commanding presence, gripping him and stroking him with force – yet not enough to be anything painful. It seemed as though every finger had its own independent task in driving Galahad mad with the touch. Galahad arched forward, tossing his head back and letting out a drawn out cry when Tristan’s thumb and forefinger lightly ran over the head of Galahad’s cock, pinching it before traveling to the underside and pushing with great pressure there on Galahad’s erection.   
  
“Yes,” Galahad gasped out. “You’re good…”  
  
“I know,” Tristan interrupted, shifting slightly so that he faced Galahad as he brought him off. His strokes quickened, every one seemingly faster, seemingly warmer than before. He slowed it down to a torturous slow pace, his fingers skirting over Galahad’s cock as though exploring a newfound territory. Galahad knew his face must have been contorting in strange ways as his mouth dropped open and his gaze dropped down to watch, each breath rocking his body back and forth.   
  
Galahad let out a loud cry and his back arched forward as he came, all the tension in his body seemingly going out of him with his climax. When he opened his eyes, he slouched forward, resting his forehead on Tristan’s shoulder.   
  
“You weren’t supposed to wear me out,” Galahad chastised, his words sticking together as he fought to work himself out of the laziness claiming both his speech and his body. “But that, yes, very good. Honestly,” Galahad remarked with amazement, chuckling, “you’re really wonderful at this.”   
  
“Yes,” Tristan replied, his clean hand already threading through Galahad’s hair and stroking through the curls softly. There was no argument to his words, just simple acceptance. Galahad closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth from Tristan’s body. He sighed and pried himself off, standing and padding around the room, searching for water to cleanse himself. He turned back to Tristan and bit his lip.   
  
“I will reciprocate,” Galahad promised. Tristan merely raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been doing so much for me, and I…”  
  
“Galahad, you’re better looking when you’re quiet,” Tristan advised, interrupting the nervous words. “You can reciprocate by coming here,” he gestured to himself, “and sitting still while I go about exploring your body.”  
  
“I never turn down a good offer,” Galahad replied with a grin, taking the damp cloth with him and settling into Tristan’s body – his back to Tristan’s chest – and waiting while Tristan cleaned his hand off and then went about washing down Galahad. Galahad relaxed into the touch, closing his eyes and trying to memorize this moment, not knowing how long they might last.   
  
And all the while, he kept reminding himself that this could not be any kind of love.  
  
***  
  
By the third snowfall, Galahad was feeling able to walk on his own and accomplish tasks without help. As a result, he’d asked Tristan to give him some space, if only to accommodate back to his old lifestyle. Tristan had nodded and obliged without a word, spending his days around the stables or scouting with the hawk. Galahad had taken his bow and arrow out to the field with a target, his fingers itching to be active again. His time of healing was the longest time span in which he had been completely inactive and he felt as though he were quite useless without those abilities.   
  
He exhaled slowly, watching his visible breath in the air as he shivered slightly, rubbing his arms and lining up the bow. As he fired a few arrows, he noted that he’d lost some of his accuracy, but that wasn’t too difficult to gain back.   
  
He reached down to grab another arrow, but the sound of twigs snapping behind him made him stop. He slowly turned. Tristan had a habit of sneaking up on people, but he would never give himself away like that and anyone else would say something. Galahad dropped the bow, one hand slowly moving to his sword as he turned around completely to find one of the…  
  
 _“If we kill you, there’ll be no mourners. And it doesn’t matter how much you plead for your life, if it’s just with your eyes, you’re still pleading. You don’t want to die. And I’m not going to let you go slowly. You’re going to die in pain.”_  
  
Out of the forest, bloodied, dirtied and limping, one of the Romans that had tied Galahad to the bed and tortured him came stumbling out, a primitive crossbow in his hands. Galahad froze on the spot, urging himself out of the paralysis. His feet wouldn’t move and his heart was beginning to pound in his chest. He mentally called for Tristan, but didn’t move a muscle.  
  
“Drop it,” the Roman directed, nodding to Galahad’s sword. He laughed darkly. “You didn’t,” he stopped, turning to the side and coughing up blood, “think that I was through with you? Your Knights killed all my men, but not me.”  
  
“Saving the best for last,” Galahad spat at him, dropping his sword to the ground and wondering if he could get close enough to snap his neck. It was that damned crossbow, if only he didn’t have it. “You’re just next in line,” Galahad threatened, taking two small steps towards the Roman.  
  
“Stop,” he commanded darkly. “I  _will_  shoot. Not to kill, but to continue with our little fun that I started the other night.”   
  
By now, someone must have noticed that something was wrong, Galahad thought. Tristan must have noticed that he hadn’t returned yet.  _Someone_  would come to his rescue, it was only a matter of time. He kept repeating that to himself as the Roman inched closer and closer until he had the tip of the arrow just a foot away from Galahad – yet still too far for Galahad to attack physically.   
  
“It was only a matter of time before we got to you,” the Roman said quietly, spitting at Galahad in the face. That was the last straw. Galahad didn’t care that he was at arrow-point, he was about to lunge forward and tackle the bastard when…when the Roman crumpled over right in front of him, an axe sticking out of his back. Galahad looked down in wonder before looking up, his eyes wide and pleased.  
  
“Gawain!” he exclaimed with ecstatic relief. “I have never been so happy to see you in all my life!”   
  
At his back, there was a warm hand and Galahad looked to see that it was Tristan. He had shown up. Gawain sauntered over, plucking his axe out of the Roman’s back and tucking it back into his armour before tugging Galahad over and into his arms, hugging him tightly. Galahad fell into the embrace, finding that he was shaking slightly. It was just like the nightmares. But the nightmares were over now, weren’t they?  
  
His gaze flitted back to Tristan and he gave a smile while Gawain patted him on the back.   
  
“You’ve healed nicely,” Gawain commented, pulling himself away, but still keeping Galahad in his arms. He studied him with scrutinous care, taking a step back and narrowing his eyes. “Galahad, you’ve got stars in your eyes,” Gawain remarked slowly, his gaze shifting rapidly between Galahad and Tristan. “Did you go and fall in love while we were away?” he laughed uneasily, something akin to true worry flickering over his features. Galahad found he was grinning quite widely, unable to stop the smile from painting his face. “Or else you’ve done something else to make yourself so damned happy. Tristan, have you been drugging him?”  
  
“Whether a man drugs someone is his own business,” Tristan remarked coolly, a playful smile on his face. Gawain stepped over and pulled Tristan into a hug – shorter than the one with Galahad and much less warmer, it appeared. “And whether Galahad is in love is his own business as well.”   
  
Gawain was watching them, Galahad’s own attention turning mainly to Tristan.  
  
“Where were you?” he asked quietly.  
  
“The stables, someone on the watch said you were in trouble. I came as quickly as I could,” Tristan replied, just as quietly, his gaze always jumping over to Gawain, as though to ensure he was not going to run away. “You seemed to have a savior though,” he remarked. “Everyone’s returned?”  
  
Gawain nodded, his voice seemingly stolen from him. Something like betrayal was in his eyes and Galahad shifted, feeling uneasy. He ducked his gaze down and cleared his throat, avoiding looking anyone in the eye.  
  
“The others went straight to the table for refreshment. It’s been an interesting hunt. You would have enjoyed it though, not a single Roman escaped without the most brutal of punishments,” Gawain was saying.  
  
“It does sound like my kind of fun,” Tristan replied. “I’m going to go see if they need any help. Galahad?”  
  
Galahad looked up now, turning and blinking in surprise.   
  
“I’ll see you up there,” Tristan continued.   
  
He hadn’t been waiting for an answer and somehow, that comforted him. Galahad watched Tristan go, recalling that he needed to breathe. He turned back to Gawain and the look of betrayal had spread to taint every feature on his face now. Galahad cleared his throat. Gawain was not taking his eyes off of him, not for a split second.   
  
“You did,” Gawain accused quietly. He was covered in the blood of others, likely himself, and dirt as well. “You fell in love.”  
  
“I…I don’t know,” Galahad stumbled.   
  
“With Tristan?” Gawain continued, narrowing his eyes and grasping Galahad by the biceps, giving him a slight shake. “Look at me,” Gawain instructed. When Galahad met his eyes, there was panic there. “There were three weeks. Did you…the two of you, you…” his gaze flickered down to Galahad’s neck where Galahad knew there was a bite mark from the other night. Galahad closed his eyes tightly, feeling trapped. “You did,” Gawain remarked quietly, releasing his grip on Galahad.   
  
“I don’t  _know_  if this is love,” Galahad replied, his voice strained. Gawain was pacing away, but Galahad was following him as quickly as he could.  
  
“Yes, you do,” Gawain turned and snapped. “You know, and you think it is. When…we were only gone…I didn’t think you’d…Galahad, you  _idiot!_ ” Gawain exclaimed angrily, storming off.  
  
“Gawain, stop!” Galahad pleaded, trying his best to catch up. “I can’t help what happened when you were gone…”  
  
“Three weeks. It took you all of three weeks to…” Gawain began with indignation but stopped, shaking his head. He scoffed, paused and then laughed finally, casting his gaze downwards. “All that time, I thought you wouldn’t understand.” He shook his head with disgust. “You understood. I was the stupid one. Fine,” he remarked blithely, waving his hand around. “Let’s go.”  
  
Galahad looked down. “I’m sorry,” he quietly replied.  
  
“What for?” Gawain tiredly asked.  
  
“I think I might…love him,” Galahad continued uneasily, risking a glance at Gawain. “But, you were, you were angry with me. I’d,” he looked down again and wasn’t sure if Gawain would even hear him now. “I’d given up hope.”  
  
“You were sleeping with Lara, and before that there was Bridget,” Gawain went on. “There was no hope in the first place. Don’t fool yourself and most important of all, don’t dare taunt with me with that.”  
  
And this time, he did storm off, too quickly for Galahad to catch up to. Galahad made his way back up to the village slowly, wincing as the cold began to seep into him and the dreadful encounter with the Roman still sat heavily in his mind. He was about to dart through the stables to head to the table when he heard voices. Swiftly, he ducked around a corner and kept quiet, peeking every so often.   
  
“I was just seeing if he would be open to advances,” Tristan was saying calmly.   
  
“And I take it he was,” Gawain snorted. “Let me guess. You did that and found that you enjoyed it, so you kept on enjoying to your delight.”  
  
“I’m just a man,” Tristan shrugged. “I’m no type of larger-than-life religious figure, or one of Arthur’s saints. You weren’t around and I owed nothing to you. Besides, this may just pass its course.”  
  
“But he thinks he’s in love with you,” Gawain snapped, his voice strained.   
  
“You were never so forward or adamant with me,” Tristan was remarking with mild amusement. Galahad could just see Gawain pacing back and forth, swinging his axe as he went. Tristan was ever unmoving, his sword resting flatly over his shoulder. “If I recall, you propositioned me and within a week, you were content to let it fade away as though it never happened.”  
  
“I was never so taken with you,” Gawain grumbled, turning and sticking the axe down in a block of wood. “Besides, that was five years ago, I was young.”  
  
“And he is young now,” Tristan replied. “This is mostly your fault, which I suppose is besides the point now. If you had just come out and asked him if he was so inclined, or maybe made the first move, I wouldn’t have had to get involved.”   
  
“Is he…behind closed doors and when you two are intimate,” Gawain hesitantly spoke, every word slow and calculated. “What’s it like?” he quietly asked.   
  
Tristan paused and Galahad found himself unable to tear himself away.  
  
“I can see why you love him so,” Tristan finally said, swinging his sword forward and planting it in the ground. “And I can easily begin to understand how a person can fall quite easily for his charms, appearances beside the point.”  
  
“Do you?” Gawain asked.  
  
Galahad held his breath, turning around slightly when Tristan’s gaze flitted across the doorway. He turned, still able to hear, but no longer able to see. Unfortunately, this was one of Tristan’s wordless answers.  
  
“Oh,” Gawain gave a dark laugh, giving Galahad no real indication as to what Tristan’s response had been. Galahad forced himself to breathe, kicking himself for being so attached to Tristan’s answer. He had never expected Tristan to be in love, so why was he so hung up on this answer. “Thank you though, for taking care of him.”  
  
“He’s been having nightmares,” Tristan said simply. “Screams in his sleep, terrible noise.”  
  
“He’s not the only one,” Gawain remarked. “On the second day out, Bors had to wake up Dag using a bit of force. He’s such a quiet one, so when he started shouting so roughly in his sleep, everyone was worried to say the least. What did you two see when you burst into the room?”  
  
Galahad closed his eyes, tried to picture himself bloodied, bruised, beaten and helpless.  
  
“What we saw was inhuman. We weren’t there in time to prevent it,” Tristan replied evenly. The sound of a sword being pulled from the ground was heard. “Will you at least be civil with me? I doubt Galahad would like it if you killed me.”  
  
“I’ll set Lancelot on you. He doesn’t give a care whether Galahad is upset or not,” Gawain said. “He’s a bastard like that.” There was a pause and Galahad heard warm laughter from Gawain. “I thought he was in your special society for bastards. You must aggravate this many people to join.”  
  
“We’re all in that alliance,” Tristan replied nonchalantly. “Perhaps not Dagonet. You should go eat, rest up. I can’t imagine that the three weeks away have been especially kind to you and your return has been less than perfect.”  
  
“You’re smart,” Gawain murmured tiredly. “A right bastard and a thief, but smart.”  
  
The sound of shuffling footsteps echoed, a door slammed shut and then there was silence. Galahad exhaled with some degree of relief, but jumping then when Tristan rounded the corner and raised an eyebrow silently.  
  
“Don’t do that,” Galahad admonished, his heart pounding away at being caught.   
  
“Enjoying yourself?” Tristan asked, only sounding mildly interested. “I’m taking you out to help you get better at scouting. You were terrible. I could hear you and see you lurking about out here.”  
  
“My tracking skills are not sub-par,” Galahad snapped defensively. “Have you ever considered that maybe you’re just incredibly good at what you do?” Tristan was moving his hands up and down Galahad’s upper arms, not quite looking him in the eyes. Galahad frowned, his thoughts still on their conversation. “Gawain is…taken with me?”  
  
“He was upset with you simply because he wants you, yes,” Tristan confirmed, glancing up at Galahad. “Before you say anything else, this is your will. Whatever your will is, follow it. I’m not keeping you trapped.”  
  
“I know,” Galahad murmured distractedly, pressing his forehead to Tristan’s shoulder and furrowing his brow. “I know,” he repeated, even quieter than before.   
  
“You understand,” Tristan pressed his lips to Galahad’s ear. “Be true to yourself, Galahad. Listen to what you truly desire and that won’t lead you astray. It’s not the caged hawk that finds its way to where it wants to be. It’s the one you set free. Be true to your heart, and find what you want.”  
  
“Right now,” Galahad murmured into Tristan’s skin. “Right here, I want you. Is that true to myself? Is that true enough for you?”   
  
“If that is what you desire…”  
  
“I do,” Galahad cut him off. “I can’t have true freedom. Not for years yet, but I want this for now. I want as much freedom as you’ll allow me.” He exhaled slowly, content to simply rest there on Tristan’s body, ready to let the world drift away and most certainly ready to forget that he may have broken a part of Gawain he had never thought he had control over.  
  
*  
  
“He begged,” Bors grunted into his mug. Galahad sat at the head of the table, all the Knights desperate to regale him with their stories of the hunt and how they had killed them all. “Arthur put his heel to his throat and made him plead for mercy,” he chuckled to himself. “He made ‘im apologize for what he did, and then krrrchk,” he made a slitting motion across his throat. “One swoop with Excalibur.”   
  
“It was perfect,” Gawain commented. “Oh, how they all begged. Tristan, it would have been right up your alley,” he called to the other side of the table.   
  
“I fared well enough here,” Tristan remarked back. Galahad winced, that seemed unnecessarily cruel. Gawain seemed to take the comment badly as well, rolling his eyes and muttering into his drink as he tipped it back. “So how did that last one escape then? The one that threatened Galahad on the field?”   
  
“We were regrouping with the horses. He’d been tied up, but he got loose and stumbled away,” Arthur replied calmly. “Gawain got him in the end. It doesn’t matter though. He’s dead, we’re alive.” He turned to Lancelot. “Did Percival’s funeral go well?”  
  
“As well as a funeral can go,” Lancelot shrugged. “Next time, you are not leaving me behind.”  
  
“I had two wounded left here. You would leave your stronghold in the hands of the two least able to fight?” Arthur commented with interest. “Lancelot, remind me never to follow your lead into a battle, not for many years.”   
  
“Apologies,” Lancelot smirked. “I forgot who I was speaking to. Arthur, lord and liege of all master battle strategies. I assume we’re ignoring the time you rode your horse into the wrong end of the woods and wound up attacking a tribe of Nomads from the South?”  
  
“Lancelot…” Arthur began warningly.  
  
“Or, rather, are we forgetting the time that you ordered an attack because there was something rustling,” Lancelot grinned sneakily, making a rustling motion with both his hands, “in the bushes, when it turned out to be a wild boar and a pack of piglets.”   
  
“I was fourteen. It was my first year commanding,” Arthur said dryly, rolling his eyes.  
  
“Yes, of course, Lord of all Battle,” Lancelot mock saluted.   
  
“In songs and stories, it will be passed down,” Gawain announced, ignoring the terrible glare on Arthur’s face, “about the great and noble courage of Arthur Castus and his sweeping victory over the boar.”  
  
“No,” Bors cut in with a sly grin. “That’d be giving Arthur too much credit. If I recall all right and proper, that boar got a good nip in at Arthur before it waddled away.”   
  
“He still has the scar,” Lancelot added. The whole of the table went silent as their attention turned to Lancelot, who was doing an excellent job of turning pink. His eyes went wide as he choked on the ale he had just swallowed. “I saw it while Gawain was stitching up another wound.”  
  
“Knights, may I remind you who your leader is, and may I also remind you who has the power to send you away on long missions into Saxon-Woad territory?” Arthur boomed with authority. “And then I must remind you that we’re not through telling Galahad how he’s been avenged.”  
  
“And Tristan’s leg,” Galahad piped up finally. “The fracture was to be avenged as well.”  
  
“I assume nothing went awry in our absence?” Arthur inquired.   
  
Tristan, Lancelot and Galahad exchanged glances. Tristan and Galahad’s gaze lingered for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye, Galahad saw Gawain wince and finally, Lancelot broke the silence.  
  
“Only if you include all the trouble Galahad gave us with his demands. It was like nursing a newborn,” he chortled, ruffling one hand through Galahad’s hair. Galahad rolled his eyes and shoved Lancelot’s hand off, taking his mug and standing up. “Whoops, I’ve offended him,” Lancelot continued in a conspiratorial tone.   
  
Galahad placed the mug down on the table, wiping his mouth with his wrist.   
  
“Let’s see the wounds,” Bors encouraged before chugging down the rest of his drink, letting out a long belch. “Come on, show the both of them. I want to see what we were defending out there in the cold.” He took out his knife and stuck it in the wood, nodding at Galahad. “Let’s go, boy, else I make someone undress you.”  
  
Galahad grumbled slightly, digging his fingers into his tunic and loosing his shirt, prying it upwards and revealing the stitched wound in his stomach. After a moment in silent scrutiny, he lowered it and raised the injured leg onto the bench, pushing aside the material and displaying the long scar. He did this all with a sober and weary look on his face.   
  
And they were silent.  
  
“Who did those?” Gawain finally asked. “They look terrible.”  
  
“It’s my work,” Tristan replied proudly.  
  
“You can’t stitch to save your life,” Gawain remarked. “No, don’t argue. You know it’s true.” They glared at each other for a long moment, enough time for Galahad to stand up straight again and cross his arms uncomfortably. The mood had spiraled into discomfort and the silence was unnerving.   
  
“Well, he asked for you anyhow,” Tristan snapped finally, excusing himself from the table with a small nod of his head to Arthur. “You won that round,” he added in parting before disappearing out the gates. Galahad took a few steps back, turning and walking away in the opposite direction when no one was watching him. Everything had dissembled into a chaotic mess all too quickly.   
  
He stalked down the alleyway, the night completely dead around him. If he listened carefully, he heard the light footfalls of someone following him, but in his fit of anger, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stopped in the middle of the alleyway, turning to scream at the gates, scream at the Romans who had injured him, scream at Tristan for kissing him in the first place and scream as loudly as he could at Gawain, who just never said anything at all.   
  
He closed his eyes and slumped up against the wall, his back crumpling in defeat. He breathed heavily, seeing every breath and feeling every burst of cold air as he inhaled. The footsteps were growing louder now, but slower. Galahad swallowed a lump in his throat, but didn’t turn around. He leaned his forearm against the wall.  
  
“Not now, Tristan,” he murmured miserably. “I can’t…I can’t see you right now without thinking about the attack,” he shook his head while leaning his forehead against his arm. “Please,” he pleaded hoarsely when the steps came closer.   
  
“I’m not…” two quiet words and then there were warm arms encircling Galahad’s waist, just holding him there tightly. Galahad closed his eyes even tighter, wrapping his arms around those on him and holding tightly as he fell back into the embrace, taking shuddering breaths and feeling sharp bursts of pain. And every time still that he closed his eyes, all he could see were the Romans taunting him, all he could feel was the sword in his flesh.   
  
“Gawain,” Galahad shook his head, clawing frantically at his hands and turning himself around to look him in the eyes. “Gawain, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, we shouldn’t have fought, I’m sorry we did. I’m sorry about Lara and…”  
  
“Don’t apologize,” Gawain cut him off, pressing two fingers to Galahad’s lips.   
  
“They  _killed_  Percival,” Galahad went on roughly, his chest heaving with his breaths now, his skin itching and every muscle twitching. “They hurt me. They were brutal and they…they didn’t care how much pain they inflicted. I’m eighteen, damn it. I’m supposed to be dead by their hands, but I’m still here. They would have killed me and you were the one who noticed that I wasn’t by your side.”  
  
“I always notice,” Gawain replied calmly, gathering Galahad into his arms slowly, gently wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer. “Galahad, you’re not okay,” he stated evenly.  
  
“Of course I’m not okay!” Galahad shouted at the top of his lungs. “I know Tristan told you about the nightmares, about how I scream in my sleep. When I sleep, they come back. It  _never_  ends. I’m going to relive this hell because of my stupid dreams.”  
  
“I thought,” Gawain began uneasily, “perhaps, Tristan was helping.”  
  
“Some nights,” Galahad admitted. “But not most nights. Most nights…it’s like it’s happening all over again. Seeing Tristan, he reminds me. He was there that night, and I start to remember. He was on the ground, fighting to get the dresser off, the boot of the Roman on his stomach. And I…they…”  
  
“Galahad,” Gawain began seriously, one hand firm on the side of his face. “Did they do anything to you that wasn’t physical wounds. Did they…penetrate…”  
  
“No,” Galahad quickly cut him off, shivering with the thought. “The one…he wanted to, but the leader said it would take too long. No, they just cut me up,” he added bitterly. “Bastards. I know you killed them all, but it wasn’t enough.”  
  
“Galahad,” Gawain laughed, interspersed with small coughs. It sounded like relief to Galahad’s ears as he pulled him even closer, holding him in the embrace. “You’re alive. That’s what matters. I’ll take you out and we’ll kill some Woads, you can take out your rage on them. But the only thing that matters is that you’re alive.”  
  
Galahad pulled away slightly, but Gawain’s hand did not move from his face. It was warm, gentle, and Galahad suddenly recalled that Gawain loved him, had loved him for so long now. And it was Gawain, safe, familiar, always there. He hadn’t the slightest idea where Tristan had run to, nor whether Tristan’s obsession would last past the week. He didn’t even know if Tristan felt anything for him.   
  
“You’re alive,” Gawain whispered gratefully, pressing their foreheads together. Galahad felt himself press slightly closer to Gawain, closing his eyes and feeling Gawain’s hot breath mixing with his, wrapping his arms around Gawain’s neck and stepping backwards to the wall, bringing Gawain with him.   
  
Galahad pressed his back to the wall and opened his eyes – stained with the traces of tears – and searched Gawain’s face. He looked to the side for a moment, one hand drifting up and resting on Gawain’s shoulder. He should have pushed him away, he should have said that he really did think that perhaps he felt something for Tristan.  
  
Instead, he kissed Gawain.   
  
It could have been the worst mistake of his life, but Galahad pushed forward and wrapped one hand through Gawain’s hair, closing his eyes and focusing on the taste on Gawain’s lips – something vaguely copper-like, the strong hints of ale, the inklings of sweat – and felt his knees buckle slightly. Gawain seemed to sense this and held him up with both hands, pushing him against the wall and pushing his tongue into Galahad’s mouth.   
  
It wasn’t as warm as Tristan, but it seemed to hold more warmth, which made absolutely no sense, but there it was. Galahad felt his heart pound in his chest and his hands were trembling slightly as he pulled Gawain even closer, meeting tongues and allowing Gawain to dominate, his body surging forward to press against Gawain’s own. He let out a small whimper into Gawain’s mouth, slowly pulling away and looking up into Gawain’s eyes, his mouth slightly open.   
  
“What was that?” Gawain asked gently, surprised, but a smile still lit up his face.   
  
“I think I just kissed you,” Galahad replied, his own words sounding shocked. “Quite pleasantly so.”  
  
“What about Tristan?” Gawain countered.  
  
Galahad gave him a glare, narrowing his eyes. “I will march away right here and right now at this moment if you can tell me that when you asked Tristan if he loved me, Tristan said yes. I’m willing to put my life on the fact that he didn’t.”   
  
Gawain paused, looking away. Galahad put a firm hand on Gawain’s chin and forced him to look Galahad in the eye. “It’s a good thing you’re lucky,” Gawain murmured grudgingly. “And that you seemingly have nine lives.”  
  
“I knew it,” Galahad scoffed to himself, shaking his head. “Well?”   
  
“Well, what?” Gawain demanded. “Don’t tell me you’re determined to pass yourself around like some town slut. Tristan isn’t around, so I’m the next best thing? Don’t misuse me so,” Gawain threatened.   
  
“If I didn’t want you,” Galahad snapped irritably, “then I would have done nothing. You think I don’t understand anything, but I understand all this far better than you ever could. I understand,” he went on caustically, “that if you had just  _said_  something, there wouldn’t have been a mess in the first place.”  
  
He struggled to get out of Gawain’s grip, but he wasn’t let go.  
  
“Excuse me,” Galahad finally pulled away completely, taking off at a brisk pace to his room. Gawain was following him, that much he could hear. He stopped at his doorway and whirled to find Gawain two paces behind him. “Stalking? I didn’t think you were learning from Tristan’s bag of tricks.”  
  
“If you’re still having the nightmares, let me stay,” Gawain tiredly offered. “Since Tristan,” he got it out with some trouble, “isn’t around. You shouldn’t have to suffer because we’re all involved in some complicated love mess.”   
  
Galahad bit back a question on the tip of his tongue and nodded slowly, letting Gawain into the room and grabbing a pillow for the chair. He didn’t readily want to admit it, but it was terribly frightening to wake up alone from one of those dreams. He handed it to Gawain and nodded to the chair.   
  
“Tristan beds there,” Galahad murmured quietly. “When he  _does_  sleep.”   
  
“I’m weary enough to sleep through two nights,” Gawain laughed to himself.  
  
“Yes, well, if all is true, then you won’t be sleeping much anyway,” Galahad warned him, tucking himself under the sheet and lying on his back. “Apparently, in the midst of my nightmares, I scream.”  
  
He closed his eyes, not taking one glance to see what Gawain’s reaction was. It took him very few minutes to fall asleep, his exhaustion from the day catching up to him quickly. He fell to a sleep plagued with echoing voices, all accusing, all threatening, all taunting him.  
  
 _“Let’s see how it slides in, so easily. You were meant for the knife, boy.”  
  
“We bury Percival in two days.”  
  
“I’ll kill them with my own bare hands, every last one.”  
  
“Such pretty skin. We’ll just have to change that, now won’t we, lads?”  
  
“He thinks he’s in love with you!”  
  
“It was only a matter of time before we got to you.”_  
  
Galahad shot awake, sweating and finding a pair of eyes fixated on him. He tried desperately to breathe, but found that it was hard to find breath in him, his whole body heaving with every inhalation. He felt sick with nausea, but nothing came up. Rather, he sat there, convulsing by his breaths alone.  
  
“You do scream,” Gawain commented, curled in the chair. He said it simply, but there was amazement in his voice, as though he hadn’t believed the stories in the first place. There was a hint of fear lurking there, as though he was afraid of Galahad because of it. “You really do.”  
  
“I told you so,” Galahad retorted, sounding like a lost little boy.   
  
He leaned his head forward on his raised knees, looking down. He chanced a look over at Gawain to find him looking. Galahad felt more vulnerable than he had in weeks, lost all over again. Normally with Tristan, he would be taken into warm arms and soothed until the memory of the dream had dissipated, but Galahad was still unsure of his footing here. He sighed and relaxed back into bed, willing himself to not fall asleep again.   
  
“Galahad,” Gawain started quietly.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Do you need to be…comforted?” Gawain continued apprehensively, edging the chair closer to the bed. It didn’t make as much noise as compared to Tristan. Galahad paused, wondering if Tristan would actually return. He looked out the window to see the moon high in the sky and decided that Tristan would be out wandering the woods, not planning to return at this point. “I can leave if you need to be alone.”  
  
“No,” Galahad replied quickly and desperately. “No, just…stay. Talk with me.”  
  
“I’m not very good at talking,” Gawain admitted with a small shrug. “But for you, I’ll try my best.” He leaned forward, his knees touching the edge of the bed and sat there intently, waiting for something. Then there was a frown. “Wait, you wanted me to talk as well?”  
  
Galahad shook his head. “Never mind,” he said softly. He looked away. “You can go back to sleep,” he encouraged. “Just…it’s probably better. Then I won’t say anything stupid,” he laughed quietly. “We all know how often I do that.”  
  
“You really don’t,” Gawain contradicted immediately. “It’s just the simple joke because you had the loudest, biggest mouth when you were younger. I mean, honestly, I didn’t think a boy could run his mouth off as quickly as you did for so long.” He snorted. “That was a feat of endurance. At some point, I actually thought Lancelot might take your head off just to shut you up.”   
  
“It’s stupid,” Galahad muttered.  
  
“It’s like the jokes about Bors being dense, or Lancelot being Arthur’s whipping boy, or…or Tristan’s strange nature,” Gawain faltered slightly, rebounding quickly with a clearing of his throat. “It means nothing. Don’t take it deeply, just pass it away and they’ll forget to make the jokes.”  
  
“Why can’t they just stop?” Galahad whined, rolling his eyes. “It really isn’t difficult.”  
  
A moment of silence passed between them as Galahad sat fidgeting, his fingers tapping against his knee. He chanced another look at Gawain and shifted uncomfortably, wondering just how three weeks could have changed their friendship so deeply. He nodded to the window and found his voice.  
  
“Do you think Tristan is all right?” he asked quietly.   
  
Gawain turned to look out the window, resting one hand on Galahad’s shoulder. “It’s Tristan,” he answered with confidence. He gave a shake of his head, something that looked like bitterness in his smile now. Galahad understood. He could hold all the ill grudges towards Tristan, but there was still something deep down that made you respect – if not like – Tristan. “He’ll outlast us all.”  
  
Gawain pressed a kiss to the top of Galahad’s head, pushing him down gently with his hands.   
  
“Sleep,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right here.”  
  
***  
  
Galahad spent the rest of the night in peaceful slumber, but when he awoke, he found that it wasn’t without its just ‘rewards’. His back felt stiff and painful, strangely feeling as though perhaps he had curled up and twisted himself around in his sleep – something that was truly impossible, really. He sat up with a drawn-out groan, the sun beating down on him.   
  
“Bloody,” he muttered to himself, stretching as best he could. It didn’t help. “Stupid, stupid, son of a whore…”  
  
“What’s going on?” Gawain awoke slowly, shifting from sleep to alertness in a smooth motion, no gap in between. He rubbed at his eyes and patted his hair down from its newly wild state. “Are you okay?”  
  
“My back,” Galahad sputtered, reaching back with his arm and trying his best to work out the knots in his back. “I think someone must have snuck in and twisted my muscles up completely. It’s impossibly painful.”  
  
“This from a man who just had his stomach and leg stitched up,” Gawain mildly commented, an amused smirk on his face. “Your definition of pain is increasingly doubtful. Oh, and next time? You let me stitch you up. I bet those stitches came loose at least twice before they were set in properly.”  
  
Galahad didn’t bother to confirm Gawain’s suspicions.   
  
“All right, move over,” Gawain got up and tapped lightly at Galahad’s back. Galahad looked up, frowning in confusion as Gawain shifted onto his knees behind Galahad, cracking his fingers in a great snapping mess of sound. Galahad winced at all the cracking and moved down closer to the end of the bed, curling forward and reaching for his toes in an effort to stretch out the muscles.   
  
And then, warm breath right by his ear.  
  
“Relax,” Gawain instructed quietly.   
  
Galahad closed his eyes and trusted Gawain, leaning back into the touch. He opened his mouth to protest, but Gawain’s hands were already pushing under Galahad’s sleeping shirt, kneading and pushing at the tight muscles, immediately relaxing them if only slightly. His hands seemed to span the whole breadth of his back, and Galahad gave a contented sigh.   
  
“Better?” Gawain asked, just as softly as before. The sound of bedsheets stirring and Gawain was even closer still to Galahad.   
  
“Don’t dare think about stopping,” Galahad warned lazily, stretching his hands out and letting them rest on his legs. Gawain’s hands traveled up to his shoulders, digging in deep here, thumbs brushing up his neck. They lingered for a moment before running higher, through every curl and sending shivers through Galahad’s whole body. “Gawain…” he murmured, pleased.  
  
His hands were moving lower now, spanning the breadth of his shoulders before running the length of his back, easing every muscle on the way. He exhaled slowly, tension releasing itself with his breath and he closed his eyes, feeling content to lose himself in the moment, Gawain’s fingertips warm on his body.   
  
This, he could get used to. This, he could trust.  
  
He broke himself out of the haze and pulled away completely, letting his shirt slip over his back and turning to smile at Gawain. “Thank you,” he said, the two simple words brimming with sincerity. He stood slowly and stretched himself out, turning away from Gawain to conceal the fact that he had grown quite hard in the process.   
  
“Galahad!”  
  
Galahad frowned, the voice coming from outside his window. He grabbed a pair of breeches and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He stumbled slightly with Gawain following in his shadow. He made it outside to find Tristan standing with a bag in his hands and his sword unsheathed. He blinked in surprise, taking slow steps forward amongst the crowd that was slowly building.  
  
“Tristan, where did you go?” Galahad asked uneasily, watching carefully as Tristan untied the bag and dropped it to the ground, the heads of the Romans piling out in a heap. Galahad looked down, staring at them, into dead eyes. “You…” he began in a flat, faint voice.   
  
“I’m burning them tonight,” Tristan said, his focus on cleaning his sword. Galahad couldn’t tear his gaze away from the deadened eyes of one of the Romans, recognizing him. That was the one who had grabbed him by the hair, the one who had suggested they shave it all off.   
  
Gawain was by Galahad’s side, though Galahad didn’t know when that had happened.  
  
“We killed them all in the woods,” Gawain said slowly, pointing over and over again at the decapitated Romans. “We killed them there and left them to rot. Did you…”  
  
“Killing them wasn’t enough,” Tristan said with little emotion in his voice. “We couldn’t prevent a horror, so I did the next best thing I knew how to do. I avenged it as best as I could.” He crouched down and began to pile the heads back into the burlap bag, one by one. Gawain turned his head away, wrinkling his nose. Galahad stared forward, frozen and fixated.   
  
“Tristan…” Galahad began uneasily, closing his eyes tightly and fighting back the sickness, fighting back the visceral memories.   
  
“I’m burning them tonight,” Tristan repeated, tying up the bag in a swift knot. Galahad opened his eyes to find Tristan studying him with narrowed eyes. “You’re still free. You know it. It looks like you made a choice.”  
  
“I didn’t…I…”  
  
“You have,” Tristan cut him off swiftly, lifting the bag. “It was the decision I thought you’d make. It just surprises me it didn’t come sooner.”  
  
Galahad stepped forward, mindful of the crowd watching them. He hushed his voice lower. “Tristan, let’s not discuss this here. I’ll…we’ll talk tonight, over the fire. Over the,” he swallowed the sickness once more, “over the burning.” He closed his eyes and schooled himself to be strong and when he opened his eyes, it was as though none of the weakness had ever been present.   
  
Every font of strength, every last thought about strength that Galahad thought he might have in him was quickly dispelled the moment the fire was lit and Tristan began to build it up with the human heads. Galahad coughed at the acrid smell, feeling it would get into his clothing and never leave.  
  
He sat with a brimming cup of ale, but he wasn’t able to drink a sip of it, not without gagging it back up as the smoke drifted past him, entering his nostrils despite his best efforts not to inhale as it passed in great wafts. Tristan was never still, always moving in quick paces, making his way around the fire, and every so often, his hand would glide past Galahad, touching him briefly as though to verify he was real. Galahad shifted uncomfortably every few moments, completely aware of the shift between them in the past few days.   
  
“Still dreaming?” Tristan asked, tossing a log on the fire.   
  
“If you can call it that,” Galahad snorted. “Yes.”  
  
“Have you slept with him?”  
  
“What?” Galahad responded with outrage. “Tristan…”  
  
“You haven’t, then,” Tristan cut him off with a calm smirk. He grabbed his mug from the ground and sat on the ground beside Galahad – slightly lower than him – and relaxed, digging his heels into the ground. “Don’t worry, I just wanted to know. Like I said, you’re free.”  
  
“Why did you go back for the heads?” Galahad quietly asked, watching the flames consume everything in the pile Tristan had created. He turned to watch Tristan in the flickering fire, the shadows and light dancing over a drawn face – no emotion shining through at all. “It could have been over, you should have just stayed.”  
  
“It never would have been resolved,” Tristan countered. “There’s your tidy ending, Galahad.” He gestured with his mug. “There they are, burning and already in the depths of all the hells.”   
  
Galahad paused, his attention down on the ground.  
  
“I thought I might love you,” he said so quietly he didn’t know if Tristan had even heard him in the first place. He didn’t look at Tristan to confirm this or not, he just clung tighter to the mug and wondered where all those feelings had disappeared to. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t get past the panic in him, the lingering terror at having the heads of the Romans burning right in front of him. Whatever infatuation he’d had for Tristan was doing a wonderful job of hiding.  
  
“You didn’t,” Tristan said. Two words, and the both of them were so sure and confident, Galahad would have had a hard time doubting anything said in  _that_  particular tone of voice. Galahad faltered, clearing his throat slightly. “You’re eighteen. An infatuation is easy to come by.” He shrugged. “I enjoyed our time.”  
  
“And you’re ready to simply abandon it?” Galahad asked with uneasy confusion.  
  
“There is no fury on earth like Gawain when he is jealous or scorned,” Tristan said sagely. “You’re an extremely good-looking man and yes, I can understand how a normal person could fall in love.”  
  
“You’re anything but normal,” Galahad said, faintly amused.  
  
“Are any of us?” Tristan argued, laughing quietly. “You’ll do well without me. And that, I think you already understand.”  
  
They sat there, side by side. Galahad felt his skin twitching and he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the fire, now growing bigger and bigger. Galahad sighed, the smell of the smoke burning its memory into his brain and every peek at the flesh in the fire brought goosebumps to his arms. Galahad didn’t want to speak up, most certainly didn’t want to admit that Tristan could be right. He should be in control of his own emotions and have the final say in whether he loved someone or not.  
  
“It was an infatuation, pleasant and enjoyable as it was. It was a short-lived infatuation,” Tristan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I enjoyed it to the end.”  
  
“You’re through with me,” Galahad finally said, piecing it together. “That’s it, isn’t it? There’s no more enjoyment to be found?” he couldn’t stop that from sounding sick and bitter.   
  
Tristan turned to look at him, no smile on his face, but levity in the expression. “I really don’t want to compete with Gawain over you. You were good to me. We’re parting on amicable terms. Besides, Gawain is a terribly jealous man who tends to have a streak of violence in him.”  
  
“You’re violent with the best of them,” Galahad accused.  
  
“I never denied that,” Tristan replied swiftly, standing up.   
  
He walked away without parting words or even any signal that he was going. Galahad rubbed his arms in an effort to get the goosebumps to disappear, but found that they wouldn’t go. He stood slightly, feeling an uneasy faltering in his knees. He steadied himself and looked around, unsure what to do. Surely he should find Gawain and at least tell him about this newest development. He knew one thing was certain. He did  _not_  want to stay by the fire.  
  
He began to walk back, but stopped, turning around and marching straight back to the fire, looking down at the melting flesh on the heads, taking a deep breath of the smell and then with great disgust on his face, he spit into the fire.  
  
“You were born to burn,” he muttered to the flames.   
  
He walked away now, feeling lighter than he had before. When he made it back to his room, he felt weary – as though he had been awake for days without sleep. It almost felt like his life had taken a swerve, passing that corner that he couldn’t seem to get around before. Maybe, Galahad thought hopefully, maybe now the nightmares would subside. He opened his door, leaning heavily on it as he pushed it forward. He found Gawain sitting on his bed, but he didn’t startle, didn’t even flinch.   
  
“Did you and Tristan co-ordinate this?” Galahad inquired wearily, closing the door behind him. “Because it has all the appearances of a well-oiled machine.”   
  
“Come here,” Gawain beckoned, patting the bed beside him. Galahad went without a fuss, dropping himself heavily down onto the bed. Gawain wrapped one arm loosely around Galahad’s back, resting his fingers on his hip. Galahad leaned into this, his head on Gawain’s shoulder. “I’m sorry that we fought,” Gawain finally said. Galahad could feel the vibration of the words. “It was endlessly silly.”  
  
“It’s over,” Galahad murmured. “It was over weeks ago.”  
  
“I’m still sorry,” Gawain went on. He pressed his lips to the side of Galahad’s face and murmured, ‘I’m sorry,’ once more, the words hushed and run together, barely there. Gawain pulled away, but only slightly. “Don’t die on me,” he said simply. “Just, don’t. There have been too many years growing used to you, learning to know you…”  
  
“Understanding?” Galahad cut in and asked with a wicked tone to the word.   
  
Gawain gave a dark laugh. “Yes, understanding. And perhaps even feeling something more than friendship. Maybe love. Maybe.”   
  
Galahad turned into Gawain’s body, pushing him down slowly and crawling on top of him when Gawain’s back was resting flat against the bed. He leaned down and slowly kissed Gawain, spreading his body out against Gawain’s. He didn’t push the kiss into something faster. He didn’t turn it into a furious attack. He merely kissed him, memorizing the taste and the feel. Gawain surrendered immediately, his body relaxing and responding to each of Galahad’s touches, gentle and hesitant. Gawain’s arms wrapped around Galahad and brought him closer.   
  
Gawain pulled away slightly, their noses touching.   
  
“Please,” Galahad said quietly, not allowing Gawain to speak.   
  
“Yes,” Gawain murmured, pushing Galahad off of him and taking his time in undressing Galahad, his hands a warm presence all over his skin as Gawain slowly disrobed him. Galahad lifted his arms above his head and felt the shirt go ghosting past his face, setting his hair into a frenzy. Gawain threw the shirt off to the side, his head tilting and pressing one long, continuous kiss down Galahad’s neck.   
  
It was slow, it was warm, it was…  
  
 _‘Perfect.’_  Galahad gasped as Gawain bit down into his shoulder, nibbling slightly, enough to leave a mark. He tilted his head back to the ceiling as Gawain fumbled with the clasp on his belt, undoing it finally and letting his breeches completely loose. Galahad shifted to push them to the side, not moving from the attention Gawain was giving to him with both his hands and his mouth.   
  
Gawain’s hands created a tight grip on Galahad’s shoulders, leaning forward so that his back was off the bed and he wrapped his legs around Galahad’s hips. He rocked up against Galahad’s body, his erection pressing against Galahad’s and creating friction that made Galahad lose his train of thought and dig his nails into Gawain’s arms. Galahad moved his fingers to the hem of Gawain’s shirt, tugging it up and off his head – getting caught around the shoulders for a moment. The both of them laughed at the mess they created before getting it off with a great deal of trouble.   
  
Galahad’s own laughter became muted as Gawain stepped off the bed in order to rid himself of the rest of his clothing. Then he gently sat himself atop Galahad, straddling him and looking down upon him with clear eyes – it was almost as if Galahad could read his intentions. He ran his hands up and down Galahad’s legs slowly, reclining him backwards and taking the legs over his shoulders.   
  
“I want this,” Galahad commented quietly. “Because you’re you. And I do want this, and not because of anything Tristan did…or said…”  
  
“Galahad,” Gawain advised, his hands firm on Galahad’s thighs as he pushed in slowly. “Shut up and just  _feel_.”  
  
Galahad closed his mouth, closed his eyes and did as he was told, focusing on his senses as Gawain pushed in slowly, his hands pushing with a little more pressure as every thrust went deep. Unlike Tristan, Gawain took his time and didn’t once increase the pace. It was still inexorably hot, waves of heat pulsating through Galahad as he tilted his head back and breathed in and out heavily, unable to tell up from down – not even able to speak, not now.   
  
Gawain pushed in slowly, every single time, hitting the spot that made Galahad give out tiny gasps that might have been cries had he the ability to make noise. It wasn’t until he climaxed that he regained control of his vocal cords. Galahad had no idea how long it had been since Gawain had first entered him – time seemed to have become insignificant – but he finally let out a great broken cry, no name spoken, no word uttered. Simply as long a cry as Galahad could muster.  
  
The next thing he recalled, Gawain was turning into Galahad’s side, sharing their warmth. Galahad blinked at this, unused to such physical displays of affection – with Tristan, they had never intentionally clasped each other in their sleep. If it happened, Galahad had never known. He couldn’t recall one instance of it.   
  
He sighed contentedly as he leaned into Gawain, enjoying the warmth and the way Gawain draped his arm over Galahad’s chest – almost protectively.   
  
And when he slept that night, no nightmare came.  
  
***  
  
Galahad couldn’t shake himself of the darkness. This time, there were flames. All around him, a circle of fire burned and through it all, he couldn’t find anyone. They were lost somewhere out there and he was supposed to save them, but he couldn’t find his way around the fire, and he couldn’t see through the black clouds of smoke.   
  
“Dagonet!” he shouted. No one came through the smoke. “Lancelot!”  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Tristan!” he tried uselessly. The name echoed in the air around him and the smoke didn’t clear. Galahad stumbled forward with his sword, trying to find them, trying to save them, but he couldn’t see. He couldn’t find his way out. He coughed at the smell clouding his lungs, falling to his knees as his vision began to blacken and the world spun around him.   
  
He woke with a start.   
  
And what he saw was something that surprised him more than anything he’d seen in years. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to sort his head out and finally brought himself back to the present. They were setting out today for Sarmatia, homebound at last. Gawain had commented that they would get about two leagues over before they realized how great a mistake they had made and track back.  
  
Galahad knew he was right, but decided not to comment. For once, they were doing something that Galahad had wanted instead of something that Gawain had committed the both of them to. But the sight that was truly striking Galahad of words was Gawain in the corner, irritably feeding Tristan’s hawk. The hawk seemed more interested in nipping at Gawain’s fingers though.  
  
“Ah,” Gawain jumped, drawing back his hand as though he had touched a flame. Galahad bit back a grin and sat up in bed, raising an eyebrow. “Guinevere wouldn’t let Arthur keep the hawk.”  
  
“So you took it?” Galahad asked.  
  
“Do you know anyone else who would have?” Gawain quietly replied. He shrugged. “I like this. It’s like he’s still with us. I’ve got a piece of Dag’s armour and,” he stopped and laughed quietly, “and Arthur gave me Lancelot’s swords…but nothing of Tristan’s.”  
  
Galahad went silent. Gawain had asked for these pieces in remembrance of their lives, but Galahad was content to live by the memories. The nightmares he had were regularly featuring the three recently fallen Knights though, something he hadn’t spoken aloud. The last thing he wanted was Gawain needlessly worrying because Galahad was having nightmares once more.  
  
“It’s a piece of him. He won’t be forgotten, not ever. This is just a memento of his life,” Gawain continued, a touched smile on his face. “He’s still going to outlast us all, if only in the memory.”  
  
“And he’s free now,” Galahad added in a muted and heavy voice. “We all are,” he said, swallowing down the emotion swelling in his throat and threatening to choke him off.  
  
“We’re all free,” Gawain repeated, making his way over to crouch down beside Galahad.  
  
“Put this miserable life to rest,” Galahad muttered to himself darkly, a shadow of a bad mood flickering over Galahad’s face. Gawain shook his head, resting his hands upon Galahad’s knees.  
  
“You can’t just forget,” Gawain told him. “It’s a part of you.”  
  
Just as the nightmares and the darkness had stayed with him, just as the brutal killings had become easier over the years, Galahad realized that he had a new chapter of his life to lead. He knew that the physical pain was in his past now, but the emotional scars that had taken so long to heal would stay with him.   
  
He just hoped they would patch up properly, the stitches of time sealing them off.   
  
And truly, Galahad knew, time was far better at stitching than Gawain and Tristan combined.   
  



End file.
